The days and months and years passed like water in a mountain spring, each one held in place by the same event. At dusk they came to bathe and dress her and then she would be presented again to those that dined with them. They would all marvel at her beauty and her grace, the way she could make any instrument sing, praise each and every one of her accomplishments but never talk to her, only about her. Each night new and old guests would look upon her as another wondrous work of art, and yet in a palace filled with countless works of art all her accomplishments seemed like another grain of rice in a whole warehouse filled with it.
But those still black eyes, so dark that they seemed misplaced on a face that seemed to glow from within with magic, those dark eyes never looked at her with longing. They rested just as they always did and try as she might, she could not find a trace of all she felt.
It must be that when you spend your life surrounded by beauty and perfection and spend all your waking hours searching for more you lose that which moved you to acquire it in the first place. Beauty is beauty because it is surrounded by things that are less so, a kind heart is kind because we are surrounded by unfeeling hearts. There was no reason in her mind, no reason behind anything that resided in this damnable place. Just beauty, beauty that lost all its glamour once it passed by its gate.
Rooms and rooms that were filled with perfection, but they all lacked the background they needed to truly shine. And so they each stole from the beauty of the objects that surrounded them, and everything hungered for its own place.
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